


There is a Rose That I Want to Live For

by Yourfavouritechild



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Harry-centric, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Louis in Makeup, M/M, No Smut, POV Harry, Past Abuse, Past Infidelity, Punk Louis, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourfavouritechild/pseuds/Yourfavouritechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>How long has the sun been gone from his life. When did the sky fall down. When did the air become so heavy, wrapping around Harry, forcing him to collapse like an old star.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or,<br/>Trapped in an abusive relationship, Harry contemplates suicide until a punk rocker enters his life and pulls him up before he drowns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a Rose That I Want to Live For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cyberlouser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberlouser/gifts).



> Thank you to Cassi (cyberlouser on ao3, organiclubestyles on tumblr) for beta-ing, you're wonderful no matter how much we argue.  
> Thank you in advance to all who read.  
> Enjoy.

There’s a knock at the door, but Harry’s not really sure he’s ready to open it yet.

Earlier, he stood in the gardens under the wisteria trees, with flowers hanging down like purple icicles. They dripped like melting ice, too, as the light rain tumbled down the petals to splatter on Harry’s hunched shoulders.

This was not the first time Harry had retreated to the gardens, regardless of weather. This time was for the same reason as the time before, and the time before that.

Harry had walked in on his boyfriend with another man, and since then can’t even stomach his name on his tongue. The other man was different than the last two, but barely. Hooded eyes and a skinny frame had greeted Harry three times now.

The first was the check-out boy from the liquor store a block away. One particularly warm Tuesday afternoon, Harry had come home early to find his boyfriend fucking the kid over the kitchen table. He begged Harry to stay, and so he did. Harry bought a new table and now walks three blocks to a different liquor store.

The second was one of Harry’s college professors. Harry’s friend, Liam, had to suddenly cancel their evening plans, so Harry had gone straight home after class instead of heading to Liam’s as planned. However, he had trouble opening the front door. His boyfriend and his professor were writhing against it; Harry could see their two heads through the little window. His boyfriend tried to convince him that he was trying to get Harry’s grades improved by sleeping with the professor. But Harry hadn’t had that particular teacher since the previous year.

The third, and most recent which caused Harry to be standing in the gardens and now determinedly ignoring the knock at his door, was his boyfriend’s mom’s friend. Harry was spending Easter with their family. When his boyfriend had disappeared for a while, Harry went looking, and happened upon him and another man in the upstairs coat closet. This time, Harry did not let him explain. He simply said farewell to the family, claiming a sick stomach, and left. The rain fit Harry’s mood and allowed him to fall into darkness. Everything around him was in bloom while he was wilting.

Harry had texted his boyfriend telling him he was not allowed to come home that night.

He had said OK.

 

...

 

It’s two a.m., Harry is lying on the kitchen floor, and the knocking won’t stop. Tissues litter the floor around Harry and there’s an empty bottle of wine that may have been more than half full when Harry started drinking it earlier.

Harry doesn’t feel like answering the door. He’s probably covered in snot and tears, with red eyes. But the knocking won’t stop. There’s a voice yelling, and it’s higher pitched than his boyfriend. No, his ex-boyfriend. That might be the wine’s fault, though. So Harry wipes his nose on his sleeve and makes for the door. When he swings it open, he’s fully prepared to explode like a rocket, neighbors be damned. Instead of looking up, though, Harry is looking down at what could very well be the pop punk version of Peter Pan. Harry’s scowl quickly dissolves to a confused expression. A pretty stranger is the last thing Harry expected at his door at two a.m. on the day after Easter. The punk seems just as confused as Harry because neither speak for a solid thirty seconds. He swivels his head to look down the corridor, and then back to Harry.

“Am I at the wrong room?” the stranger asks in a voice suited more for a prep than a punk.

Still buzzed, Harry can’t seem to properly ask the two questions he wants to: who are you and what are you doing here. So his mouth smashes them together.  
“What are you?” Immediately, Harry shakes his head at himself. Don’t embarrass yourself, Styles. Coming to his own conclusion, the stranger laughs to himself.  
“I think I am, sorry dude,” he goes to turn around. “Have a nice night, though.”

And then the stranger walks away in his form fitting black jeans, and Harry might be fixated on his ass as he bounces up the staircase or maybe he can’t move because if he does he’ll vomit.

Harry ends up vomiting, anyway. Into the toilet, while he lets the tub run boiling hot. From the medicine cabinet, he pulls out his anti-depressants as well as a pill bottle of something he can’t pronounce. He sets them beside a razor on the side of the tub. He’s just about to fetch another bottle of wine when there’s a knock at the door. The knock is timid, so Harry ignores it. A second knock sounds as he opens the drawer for the corkscrew. He rolls his eyes, and slams the drawer shut.

His scowl doesn’t dissolve after he opens the door. The punk stands before him, wringing his hands and donning a slanted smile.

“I’m really sorry ‘bout this, dude, but my friends aren’t home and won’t answer my calls.”

Harry can tell where this is going. And now his plans will be ruined because he’s too nice.

He sighs.

“Do you need a place to sleep?” he asks tiredly.

The punk’s face lights up. “Oh yes, thank you, thank you, you won’t even know I’m here.”

Harry steps back and gestures for the stranger to come inside. He watches the wispy auburn head of hair enter the hallway.

As Harry closes and locks the door, the stranger introduces himself.

“I’m Louis, by the way.” He definitely wasn’t born into a family of punks. “I go to school here too. Music productions major.” He’s also probably in a band with some people upstairs, which explains the relentless drumming on the weekends.

“Harry,” he slurs out. “Psychology, pre-law.”

“Bet you’re good at winning arguments, then, that’s wicked cool, dude,” Harry bets himself a week’s pay this punk is from some rich Connecticut family who tell their son they love him unconditionally but passive-aggressively disapprove of his choices. “My dad’s in law,” Louis continues. Ding ding ding. “Maybe I could set you up with an internship or something to make up for my barging into your early morning, if you’d like!” Harry is about to half-drunkenly retort about not needing hand-outs or some other pretentious shit his ego feels like saying to prove he’s better than this punk, but the little fireball beats him to it.

“I’m sure you’re hooked up, already, dude, by the state of your stress levels,” Louis smiles wide at Harry. This kid must be on something, too, because he’s too perky and delusional for Harry right now. Breathing in deep, Harry opens his mouth to say something. A burp surprises him, though. It tastes like deviled eggs and wine and it’s gross. He reads Louis’ raised brow and quirked smile to mean he isn’t particularly bother by Harry’s altered state. Doesn’t mean it won’t be any less embarrassing for future Harry.

“Can I use your bathroom?” Louis asks, pointing at a nearby ajar door.

Before Harry gives him permission, he remembers what rests behind the door.

“Uh, hold on a sec,” he stalls, sort of walking, sort of stumbling past the stranger to get to the bathroom. Inside, he hurriedly, yet begrudgingly, hides away his pills and razor, and unplugs the tub.

“All yours,” Harry tells Louis as he exits the bathroom.

“Thanks, dude!” Louis leaves Harry standing dumbly outside the closed door.

And so Harry Styles decides not to kill himself that night. He reasons that to do so with a stranger in his house would be weird and leave the stranger in an uncomfortable situation.

Instead, Harry cleans up the mess he made on the kitchen floor. On the couch is a throw and some pillows, so Harry doesn’t fetch anything else from the linen closet. Plus, he can’t be bothered to.

His thoughts sail on an ocean of wine; which only makes him think of that afternoon, and now he wishes the stranger wasn’t there. Falling asleep forever would be a lot easier than trying to fall asleep until morning.

But he can’t do that in front of the kid, so he curls up in his bed that’s soiled with bad memories. All the blood and tear stains mostly have come out in the wash. On these sheets, Harry can still see the faint pink circle from the first time he was hit.

Faintly, Harry hears Louis turn off the lights and settle onto the couch.

Louis never said when and if he’d ever leave, but Harry doesn’t care because he’s never leaving his room again.

 

...

 

Unfortunately, Harry wakes up. Rain patters on his window and the smell of coffee trickles into his room. It very much reminds him of the beginnings of a quirky, sappy love story, and right now Harry hates love. He hates everything but especially he hates his acquiescence to let the punk sleep on his couch.

What was his name? Lawrence? Lucifer? No, Harry remembers it being French.

Louis.

Harry hates Louis, too.

Harry also hates how nice the air smells and how he kind of wants a cup of coffee because he had planned to stay in his bed for the rest of his life. Which hopefully won’t last long after this kid leaves.

So Harry gets out of bed. He’s still in the same clothes he wore to the Easter party. He probably looks disgusting. Feels worse. The clock on the bedside table reads 10:27 a.m. Their college is closed for a long weekend due to the holiday, so classes are canceled for the day.

In the hallway, the lights are too bright. Harry squints at them as he shuffles to the kitchen. He observes the scene before him from the kitchen entry way. Louis leans on the counter, assumedly waiting for the coffee pot to finish. Unlike earlier, the kid looks drastically less like a member of The Clash. No wispy fringe held up by hairspray, but soft hair held back with a headband. A trace of eyeliner lingers and the patchy jean jacket is lost. Chipped black fingernails tap away at the counter, but then stop. Louis watches Harry watch Louis. Harry’s exhaustion and sadness probably resonates on his face because Louis looks somewhat concerned.

“Did I wake you, dude? I’m sorry I was trying to be quiet,” he gestured to the coffee pot. “Thought I’d be a good guest and make you coffee, though!” Louis smiles like the sun, but rain still beats on the windows and Harry doesn’t like the dichotomy. The lights are already too bright inside, he doesn’t need a ball of fire making nice with him. But he’s grateful for the coffee.

“Thanks,” he says simple. As he saunters towards a cabinet, he feels eyes following him. The inquisitive pressure building inside Louis is ballooning and pressing up against Harry, so he’s a bit surprised he doesn’t hear a ‘pop’ when Louis finally speaks.

“Hey,” a timid voice rings behind Harry.

“What,” he answers, maybe a bit too roughly.

“Oh, uh,” the coffee pot beeps done. “Well, me and the guys upstairs have a show tonight, if you’d like to come. If you haven’t got any plans, of course. You just seem a bit, uh, stressed,” Louis offers.

Harry can tell he’s sincere, but he’d rather follow through with his plans from last night than listen to people aggressively whine about the world. Well, actually… no. He can whine to himself. But maybe…

Harry lets the silence verge on awkward as he fills a mug with coffee. Before responding, he brings the mug to his face and breathes deeply.

“Where,” he indulges.

“At The Rusty Nail, a couple of blocks off campus. Starts at seven.”

A dingy, dirty, underground establishment that doesn’t ID if you use your manners. Harry had been there once, the first semester of his freshman year. He had spent a grand total of two dollars and hooked up with someone in the bathroom.

“Maybe,” Harry says. Which means no.

“Cool,” Louis poorly conceals his disappointment whilst preparing his own mug.

A buzzing starts and Harry realizes it’s his own phone. Must’ve left it out after his crying session. Diagonal to both boys, the phone rings a disgustingly chipper tune. The ringtone is familiar and Harry doesn’t like it. His heart sinks to his stomach, and possibly falls out of his ass.  
Louis looks between the phone and Harry, asking a silent question.

“My ex,” Harry answers.

“Oh,” the pieces clicking together behind the kid’s eyes. “Is that why, last night, you,” he doesn’t finish the sentence and Harry concludes it’s because the stranger doesn’t want to be rude.

“Yea, I caught him, uh,” ripping his heart out and spitting on it. “Cheating on me, yesterday.” Harry breathes out sadness and fills his oversharing mouth with scorching coffee.

“Oh, shit, dude, sorry. I wouldn’t have stayed if, if I knew.” The phone stops buzzing.

“Yea, well,” Harry says as bitter as his drink tastes. The air thickens as the seconds pass. Louis swallows and then gets up from his seat. He speaks quickly and tensely.

“I’m gonna, uhm, go, but thanks. Harry, right? Thanks, Harry, for housing me. If you need anything, dude, really, the guys upstairs will help you, promise.”  
And then he’s finally gone. The apartment is quiet again; Harry is alone again.

Sinking, existential dread bursts through the windows and holds Harry hostage in his room. The walls have started to look funny from Harry staring at them so long. Glass lays in small piles around the floor because Harry broke every picture frame in the room. He opened up old scars on his thighs. He’s asleep on the floor when his phone rings. Same tune as earlier. But Harry answers it this time. He doesn’t want to, but he does.

The voice over the phone yells. It is deep and angry. It tells Harry it will be over in an hour to get its stuff. It tells Harry they can overcome this, and bad things won’t happen again. Harry says nothing, just silently cries as he runs the tub water.

When the conversation ends, the phone reads 6:43 p.m. Harry kneels beside the tub, gazing at his reflection. His dark curls tumble around his teary face. Overcome with emotions, Harry sits back on his heels. He thinks of his mother, his sister, and then of Louis. The stranger who’s half drunken cup of coffee sits in the sink.

So Harry unplugs the drain a second time.

As he briskly walks off campus towards The Rusty Nail, the fresh cuts on his thighs sting from rubbing against his jeans.

Despite the rain having stopped this morning, Harry still has to maneuver around puddles. The reflections of the street lamps in the water remind him of how lights look when he cries.

His stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten all day, save for that cup of coffee. That doesn’t count.

In his back pocket, his phone sits like a brick. It’s on silent.

When Harry arrives, the place is filled with mohawks and leather. Everything inside is made of old wood and red fabric; old band logos line the walls. Harry looks like a depressed folk singer and could only feel more out of place if he was in a polo and khakis.

The first band is setting up, but Harry doesn’t see Louis or the guys from upstairs. So he heads to the bar. The bartender has more tattoos than countries Britain had invaded. A please and thank you get Harry “something sweet and cheap.” The bartender tells him Regal Innuendo is opening for The Missing Links; the first band to play at The Rusty Nail with all openly queer members.

Interesting.

While Regal Innuendo plays, adrenaline fueled bodies thrash about the floor. Harry is content with his fruity drink watching from the sidelines. The band whines about the government and war. A few vaguely familiar faces appear throughout the night, but Harry greets none.

Contrasting Harry’s insides, the atmosphere is loud and explosive. He tries to keep track of how many people have part of their head shaved, but loses count after twenty-two or so. Regal Innuendo finishes with a screaming “FUCK YOU RONALD REAGAN!” and then the room turns into smiles and chatter.

Harry downs the rest of his drink, tasting like strawberries and fire. Adjusting his position, he feels his phone dig into his backside.

He won’t look at it. Emergencies only. He guesses there are angry voicemails and frenzied texts.

When he checks he’s not wrong. 15 texts. 4 missed calls. The texts start sweet but quickly turn sour.

_Baby, we can fix this_

_Fuck you, you prude_

_You’re ass isn’t that special, I can find another_

A finger hovers over the call button, but the sudden mic feedback startles Harry. On stage, the band looks like the lovechild of Green Day and The Ramones, except five times better looking. Front and center, tapping the mic, is Louis.

Cherry-cola hair pushed back into a sloppy quiff, nail polish no longer chipped. Eyeliner is dark and thick, so his blue eyes stand out like the moon at night. And Harry thinks he better stop comparing this kid to astronomical objects before he digs his own grave.

The room has hushed and all eyes are on the stage. Louis’ hands rest on his guitar.

“How’s everyone’s night so far?” He asks the crowd enthusiastically, who, in turn, respond with hoots and cheers.

“That’s what I like to hear!” He smiles warmly. Harry notes that the lighting here seems softer than his apartment. Louis points to each member as he introduces them.

“Here we have Goldie,” a blonde, shaggy headed boy on bass guitar. “Daze on drums,” a red-haired, female version of Tommy Ramone. “I’m Louis, we’re The Missing Links, and this is a song called The Night Train.”

The song is short, hyped, and rather good lyrically. Simple and energetic: very punk. Harry finds himself nodding his head and tapping his fingers while they play. During a drum solo bit, Louis catches Harry’s eye. He bears a wide, dazzling smile before getting lost in the song again. The song ends, the crowd cheers. Everyone is happy. Maybe not Harry, entirely, but he’s distracted for now.

“This next song,” Louis starts, catching his breath. “This next song goes out to anyone here who’s been fucked over by someone they care about.” People clap, whistle, and shout. “Or if you’ve just been having a rough time recently, this one’s for you.” Clapping and hollering ensues as the song starts.

It’s powerful and angry. If Harry aggressively nods his head, that’s his own business.

The Missing Links play seven more very short, very punk songs and finish with a cover of The Clash’s The Call Up.

The night has flown by for Harry. Feelings from earlier still linger in his mind, but they’re hidden by a temporary cloud of fast-paced music.

After The Missing Links left the stage, Louis appeared beside Harry within a handful of minutes.

“You came!” Louis beams, shiny with sweat.

“I, uh, have my reasons,” Harry replies stiffly in an attempt to control his over-sharing tendencies.

“Well, whatever reason,” a warm hand rest on Harry’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to join me and the guys the rest of the night.” Louis shouts over the commotion of the place. “We’re gonna have a drink or two, then go home.” 

The night has allowed Harry fleeting moments of forgetting, so maybe a few more would serve him well.

In the back of his brain is the tub and the pills and the cuts. In the middle of his brain is the missed calls and broken picture frames. In the front of his brain is this boy who is nice to him for no good reason (and the fact that Harry still hates love).

 

...

 

The back room where the bands chill out gives off the feel of an unkempt basement. On one side of the room, a gaggle of punks overflow a ratty couch. Empty cans and bottles litter the coffee table before them. There seems to be a permanent haze hovering over the entire room. Or maybe Harry just imagines that there should be one. The other side of the room hold instruments and bags and the occasional pair of discarded combat boots.

Having followed Louis backstage, he wasn’t entirely sure where to put himself. He chooses to stand beside Louis. Well, he’s more a step behind and to the right, like a child before their first day of school.

Any commotion and camaraderie happening before Harry entered halts. Eyes falling onto him, assessing the stranger. Hands float mid-air and smiles fade to a confused look. What a welcome. Could be worse, Harry surmises.

“Guys,” Louis steps aside to reveal more of the Raggedy Andy doll behind him. “This is Harry.” Faces start to soften. “Dude who let me crash at his last night?” Pieces fall into place as the crowd voices their understanding. Louis turns to Harry. Introductions come next and Harry doubts he’ll remember everyone’s names. He officially meets Goldie and Daze from The Missing Links, as well as Anubis and Candor from Regal Innuendo. Why no one has a relatively normal name, Harry wants to somehow ask without being rude. He doesn’t think too long on it. He can’t, really, because soon he’s swept up into the conversation.

The guys put him in the middle of the couch, hound him with questions and compliments. They all appear genuinely interested, which is a nice change. Louis sits on the coffee table because the couch only holds so many. He’s across from Harry and their knees knock from time to time. Maybe he flushes, maybe that’s the alcohol. Everyone’s touching Harry at this point, though. He gets pats on the back, knees knocked together, and Goldie even holds his hand when he briefly talks about his ex. Quite the touchy crowd. The physical contact doesn’t bother Harry because it’s all platonic and comforting.

He nurses a cheap beer while laughing hysterically. Halfway through his second drink, someone yawns and so everyone agrees to pack up. As Louis puts his guitar away, Harry stands beside him and watches. Giggly and slightly buzzed, Harry decides to ask him a question he’d had from earlier.

“How come you don’t go by some edgy rocker name, like the others?”

Louis clicks the case shut and turns to Harry. With an amused smile, he looks up. His hair is a downright mess, eyeliner smudged. The top of his shirt is stained with sweat, but he’s glowing. Like dying cinders.

“I like my name, why should I change it?” Harry can’t think of a good response, so he opts to smile at his shoes. He’s not entirely sure what he’s even doing backstage at a punk rock concert.

His hands itch to touch the dead weight of the phone in his back pocket. Someone might be in the apartment when he gets back, someone might not be. So he should check before he leaves. No surprises.

While Louis talks to the other band, Harry fiddles on his phone. He listens to the most recent voicemail from forty-five minutes ago.  
That voice; tinged with sadness and terrifyingly calm.

_Harry, baby, I love you. Please come home. To our home. If you’re not back by morning, I don’t know, baby. I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t lose you. And you can’t run away from this, Harry, can’t go hide in those goddamned flowers ag-_

Harry pulls the phone from his ear. When did he start crying? When did a hand appear on his arm? The room is silent and all eyes are on him again. It’s embarrassing. It’s worse knowing what’s waiting for him at the apartment.

He doesn’t want to go back, but he wants to, as well. Wants to forgive, but also wants to never hear that voice again. The hand on his arm squeezes lightly and reality comes back to Harry. Concerned blue eyes question his own green ones.

“He’s, uhm,” his voice shakes. Harry hates his emotions. Hates this whole situation, hates love, hates life. “He’s at the a-apartment, right now.”  
Louis’ words are cautious.

“You can stay over with-“

“No, I-I have to go back.” He has to, his brain tells him. “I have to…” Save this, save him, save me. “Set things straight.” Harry thinks he sees a flash of disappointment on Louis’ face.

“We’re right upstairs, you know,” so gentle. “If you need us.” Harry nods. The subject is dropped.

Harry walks back with the band but it’s more or less awkward. Nerves dig up his insides so Harry feels like his lungs reject all air given to them.

 

...

 

Those fleeting moments of forgetting have been replaced by the heavy weight of impending doom. Even though he’s walking alongside Harry, the warm ball of fire is no longer at the front of Harry’s brain.

A million scenarios of how the next moments will play out zoom through Harry’s head as he stands before the apartment door. Louis gives him a final, lingering pat on the back before following Goldie and Daze upstairs.

The hallway is now two shades darker, ten degrees cooler, and a thousand times quieter.

The door looks the same as it ever has. Harry’s key fits the same lock as always. His hands shake just as hard as the last two times he did this.

When Harry opens the door, he feels both scared and angry, like a tiny bird whose nest had been invaded, and he might as well be that bird, because inside was a mess. He isn’t quite sure what he expected, but at what he finds he isn’t surprised. Anything that could be broken, is. Glass crunches under Harry’s feet as he walks. He’s holding back tears. No crying, not yet. He leaves the door open a crack behind him, just in case.

As he slowly walks, Harry is taken back to the times before. Everything is the same. History repeats itself and Harry has let it. He wishes he hadn’t, that he could’ve stopped this spinning wheel. This pendulum swinging by to nearly hit him. Something draws Harry toward the kitchen. A rip current, carrying him against his control. Like a feather in the wind, Harry is a slave to the invisible tug. He’s trapped, he knows. There’s a faint light at the end of the tunnel, maybe it's heaven maybe it's hell but that doesn’t matter because either would be better than this unrelenting pull.

A cold sweat coats Harry’s body. His mind is floating somewhere above his greasy curls. In the kitchen is the one and only. He’s pacing. His bottom half is hidden by the island. Harry’s foot crunches glass and all movement halts. When their eyes meet, even the air in Harry’s lungs freezes.

“Baby,” that known voice says sickeningly. An outstretched hand quickly closes in on Harry, but he still can’t move. His eyes follow the hand as it makes to touch him. The hand is dead, but it's warm and familiar. The caress feels like watching one’s childhood home burn.

“You came back to me, baby,” hot breath drips the words out. “We can fix this,” they’re like acid rain flowing into Harry’s ears. “I still love you.”

The warmth from this man has begun to melt the icy layers Harry developed upon entering. Puddles form on the ground and soon Harry’s feet are soaking wet. But there’s still too much heat. The water’s boiling, Harry’s too warm. He hasn’t spoken yet, and now he can’t even try because his mouth is too dry.

“You didn’t have to ruin all those pretty pictures of us in our bedroom, did you?” A hand in Harry’s hair. Tight grip.

“Why couldn’t you answer my calls, Harry, I was so worried about you,” Another hand on his waist. Nails digging into his skin. Everything around Harry looks like the streetlamps in the puddles.

“Why don’t you care about me like I care about you? Huh?” On that last syllable, the hand in Harry’s hair yanks. Harry winces and lets lose the quietest cry. The hands invading him are so still compared to his shaking body.

“I gave you everything, and you gave me nothing, Harry! Why did you think I’ve gone off searching for something in others? I deserve more from you!” The voice is deep and angry and the hands are hard. They push Harry’s back against the island, granite cold through his shirt. His head is still pulled back.

“Give me more, Harry!” There’s a press of groin to Harry, his own hands braced him against the counter. Eyes frantically search the ceiling for a savior. With the grip on his hair, Harry can barely shake his head.

“No,” he squeaks out, barely audible. Their bodies are pressed closer together. Faces close, too close.

“Don’t you deny me what’s mine,” the words are breather onto Harry’s skin and sit on the surface like beads of sweat. He’s fighting a tank with a rock, but he gets out a “no” with more force.

All the presence of another body leaves Harry, yet he doesn’t have enough time to feel relief before he’s struck. The hand once on his waist connects with his cheek. He’s tasting blood as he sinks to the ground. The pain echoes.

“Are you not even gonna forgive me, you fucking bitch?” The man yells down at Harry.

Harry shut down. Gone numb, like he’s floating through cold ocean waters. Cement hardens in his veins as he stares at nothing. Stinging as they fall, fresh tears leak from Harry’s glazed eyes.

How long has the sun been gone from his life. When did the sky fall down. When did the air become so heavy, wrapping around Harry, forcing him to collapse like an old star.

His back is against the cabinets, feet nearly tucked underneath him. That voice that goddamned voice, yells at him. He’s not sure what is being yelled, only hears the thunder booming before him. Regardless, the noise gets louder and closer, piercing his skin like a thousand pin pricks.

If he’d ended this, his life, before that intrusive punk had stopped him, he wouldn’t have to deal with this. So close to freedom, he had been so close to true freedom.

In the haziness of Harry’s stare, color flashes. The yelling by him stops and reemerges farther away. The voices multiply. Reality jolts him alive when he hears his name called.

In the kitchen, Louis, Goldie, and Daze have joined.

Harry’s body turns on autopilot. Fight or flight mode activated. He scrambles to stand, pushes past the others before they know what’s happening. His limbs desperately attempt to catch his mind.

He runs. He fights past the questions and grabbing hands that try to stop him.

He knows where he’s running to, feet having traveled there so often. Too often, probably.

 

...

 

When he reaches the garden gates, they’re locked. Harry grips the metal and frantically tries to rip them open, but to no avail. With no other option, he climbs over. The spikes scratch his arms. He’s numb so he doesn’t feel any pain, or he might but it just adds to the mountain high pile teetering inside him.

The garden is dark save for the moon struggling to shine through the leaves. Harry’s crying. He’s too warm. He might vomit. A leaf glides down in front of him. That’s it. Now he’s on his hands and knees, dry heaving and watching his own tears splash against the cobblestone. His sobs are silent.

There’s just so much pain, too much. He can’t do it, he can’t, he wants out. The moon falls down and presses Harry into the stone. Everything leaves him. He’s dust, a pile beneath the trees. The shadows grip and shake him, unable to be stopped. Invisible arrows rain down. They pierce Harry’s skin, they rip him open.  
The entire world stills around him as he bleeds out. Above him, even the beautiful wisteria is black. Angels must’ve come and taken all the light away.

Footsteps. Panting. Shouting.

Harry scrambles and runs to hide in the rose bushes. His efforts too late, as whomever has spotted him jumps the gate. Shoes hit stone. His own shoes falter in the soil. He’s sobbing again. Running away. He hears his name shouted at him. The voice desperate. In the dark, all the flowers blend together. Harry trips and smashes into the damp soil. He crawls towards a bush. Thorns tug at his clothes. Hidden from the world, he’s safe. When he closes his eyes, darkness melts away reality. A voice pierces through.

“Harry!” It calls for him.

Harry focuses on the smell of wet roses around him.

“Harry,” the voice tumbles towards him. “Harry, where are you,” soft as a cloud. A different familiar. A breeze rustles the trees, and Harry opens his eyes in time to find moonlight dancing across skin.

Louis stands diagonal to Harry. His face is heavily shadowed. Not like a raging fire, but like a healing wound. Harry thinks the sound of his pounding heart gives him away.

Cautiously, Louis walks towards where Harry hides. A hand pulls back thorny branches to reveal the shivering body of a crying boy. Trying to make eye contact, Louis kneels beside Harry. He resists. The slightest, tenderest invisible tug makes him turn his head. Although he’s already broken down several times that day, when the stars of Louis’ eyes crash into Harry’s own, he breaks down once again.

“Oh, Harry,” Louis breathes out as Harry’s face crumbles. Faraway from the gardens, Harry’s mind drifts on. There is so much, so much.  
The roses around them drain of color and fill Harry’s cheeks. The feeling of red brings his mind closer to him. The leaves of the bush turn black as they light Harry’s eyes green. The branches and the soil tint Harry’s hair. Even Louis’ cheek flush from the drained flowers.

While Harry speaks, the night sky spills from his lips.

“I want to live my life with color, Louis. He took away all my color and I didn’t even realize it.” Harry’s mind crashes back into him. “That’s why I think I come to the gardens, Louis, to take back my color.” His words become frantic. “I lost it, I lost it all. Why did he take it?” He’s blubbering. “Why did he take me away, why did,” his words blur into unintelligible mumbles muffled by Louis’ chest.

Louis holds Harry until the entire garden is dark and the two of them shine color.

 

… 

 

A year has passed since Louis came into Harry’s life. Harry slowly regained and held onto his color. Like in the garden the color started in his cheeks, then his eyes, and soon his whole being was warm again.

The Missing Links had harbored Harry in their apartment until his ex was gone for good. Which took as long as expected.  
The last time Harry had gone to the gardens had been out of want, not necessity. In full bloom, the flowers had filled the air with a heavenly aroma. Harry had taken Louis with him, showed him his favorites.

The last time Harry had filled the tub, it was to have a bubble bath. Soothing music accompanied the lavender scent swirling about the room. Louis had suggested donning a face mask for the full spa effect. Which Harry did, of course.

The last time Harry drank wine at odd hours of the night, he was giggling on the living room floor with Louis. Finals had finished, Louis had bought wine to celebrate, and Harry hadn’t felt like going to a party. So they spent the evening hiccupping over bad jokes and soft touches. Harry fell asleep in Louis’ arms in the pillow fort they had built.

Now, on a sunny Sunday morning, Harry lays on the couch, feet propped up on Louis’ thighs. Louis absentmindedly smooths his thumb over the bone of Harry’s ankle.

Goldie and Daze are out grocery shopping. Soft rock plays from somewhere in the apartment. Sun shines on the old wood floors. The mood is lazy, but comfortable.

Later, Harry will have to finish a class project and read some chapters. For right now, though, he is content with being lazy. Louis ghosts over the pad of Harry’s foot.

“Lou!” Harry giggles like ringing bells. Louis looks over at Harry, mouth turned up in a soft smile.

“Remember how we first met, Harry?” Louis asks without prompting. He brings his legs up to sit criss-cross, still gently holding Harry’s feet.  
“I’d rather not,” Harry replies sarcastically. He’s half serious, as the whole day following their initial meeting was not entirely pleasant. Louis rolls his eyes at the comment.

“I know you were like, plastered drunk, but, why did you let me stay?” His question was earnest.

The pair rarely discussed that day because Harry always deflected. It hurt to think about. In truth, Harry didn’t know why he let Louis stay. He could say he was being nice, but he wasn’t in a nice mood that evening, was he? Maybe it was that invisible tug even drunk Harry could feel. Maybe he needed a reason, _wanted_ a reason, not to kill himself. Harry isn’t going to answer the question, because he can’t, directly, at least.

“That night…” can he do this? Talk about it? Harry hadn’t told anyone, besides a therapist, about his suicidal thoughts. “That night, I, uhm, I was gonna off myself,” his voice is quiet. The sun fades from the floorboards. Louis doesn’t speak, so Harry continues.

“But then you knocked on my door, twice, and I couldn’t just do _that_ with you here.” Harry feels like a leaky pipe, secrets starting to spill without control. “And then that night, I was gonna do it. But he was coming over and I didn’t want to deal with him and, I don’t know, I remembered your concert and just, sort of, chose to go.” Slowly, the sun returns, shining through the windows and bouncing off objects.

“And after that concert, you came to my room, and then you found me in the gardens. Louis, you, sort of, saved me.” Pause. “I don’t know why I let you stay, Lou, but I’m glad I did.”

Harry spies a tear rolling down Louis’ cheek, which Louis quickly wipes away.

“I,” Louis starts, eyes cast downward. “I hadn’t known, Harry.”

“Yea, and since all that, you’ve helped me get my color back. You remember me saying that? About losing my color?”

“Yes, of course I remember that.” Like a sunrise on the ocean, Louis’ watery smile finds its way to Harry’s face. Louis lifts Harry’s feet from his legs, lays them down, and moves so he is kneeling on the couch beside Harry. Soft and dark, he looks like the smoke that billows from a volcano. Cupping Harry’s face gently, Louis places a delicate kiss to Harry’s forehead. Their foreheads rest against each other. Harry has his eyes closed, but he feels warmth radiate through him. He feels like he’s glowing, a newborn star experiencing its first nuclear reaction.

“I am so glad you got your color back.” The hot breath smells like coffee and cinnamon buns from breakfast. Harry is smiling and he’s sure Louis is too by the sound of his voice. Another kiss is pressed to Harry’s forehead. He opens his eyes at the touch of lips. Light illuminating one side of his face, Louis smiles down at Harry. Thumbs smooth over Harry’s cheeks, lulling him back to sleep. He breathes deeply, absorbing all the familiar smells around him. Of coffee, and breakfast, and Louis.

“I know we both got work to do, but how about a post-breakfast nap and cuddle?” Louis asks. Harry’s smile widens as he nods, head still held in Louis’ hands.  
Louis and Harry spoon on the couch, heartbeats falling in time with each other. The hand draped over Harry’s side intertwines with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all who read, kudo, and comment.  
> The title comes from The Clash's The Call Up, which The Missing Links sings in this story.  
> tumblr: yourfavouritechild


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